“Right again. Just hopeful.”
She raised her arms. “I’m so glad. Now get over here and finish the job.”
He gently lowered himself over her, his skin slowly gliding over hers, creating a friction that made her shiver. He guided himself into her slick channel, inching slowly forward, then back out again. Every time he slipped in, he went a little further, teasing her, readying her.
Sensations built much quicker, her nerve endings heightened and primed for the next step. The slow pace was killing her. She wrapped a leg around his torso and pulled, arching her back to meet his thrust.
He grunted but moved slowly until he was buried deep inside. He paused for a moment, his forehead against hers, while she adjusted to the fullness. Her breath caught and she moaned, low and long, the feeling of completeness unexpected and unfamiliar. The world seemed to pause while she absorbed the sensations; she clenched the muscles in his back, panting, another orgasm just out of reach.
She shifted slightly and he moved within her, her muscles grabbing and pulling at him, the sweet friction making her eyes roll back. She wiggled her hips again, nudging against him, growing more insistent. Finally, he began to move again, slowly at first then faster as she matched him thrust for thrust. Soon, groans filled the air, along with the rising scent of arousal. The headboard banged against the wall, but she had no time to register or even adjust as she was swept along the tide of their lovemaking. Stacia came with a tight clench of vaginal muscles and a loud cry. Jason followed her over the edge, sagging onto her, breathing heavily.
After several long moments, he rolled to his side and pulled out gently, preserving the condom. He tossed it in the wastebasket, and fell back onto the bed, his breathing still labored. He put an arm around her and she snuggled close.
Stacia struggled to catch her breath. “Wow. You’d be worth any bad press.”
*
Sunlight streamed througha crack in the curtains, stabbing Stacia in the eye. She groaned and tried to tug the covers over her head, but they were trapped under something heavy. She shifted and realized the weight was also draped across her torso, holding her in place. A deep, very male grumble sounded in her ear and the weight shifted, dragging her closer against a warm male chest. With a smothered gasp, she opened her eyes. A stabbing pain threatened to crack open her skull. Holy shit, what had she done?
She reviewed the night before in her mind, desire threatening to reignite and overtake good sense. She shifted slightly to get away from the sun and looked over her shoulder. Snoring softly next to her was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen this close, dark hair tousled, muscular body that she knew intimately. Her memory slammed back—getting fired; her conversation with her father; drinks with Sophie and then with this man, Jason; dinner and a totally out of character proposition by Stacia herself to this very same man, leading to probably the most amazing night of her life.
And her biggest mistake.
Shit. This wasn’t her. She never did things like this, always maintaining control. She had to get out of here, preferably quietly and without witnesses. If her father ever found out, he’d kill her.
She scanned the room, looking for her clothes. She had to get out of here before anyone saw her, further shredding her reputation. As if being fired and humiliated wasn’t enough. She hoped no one had heard her last night.
She grabbed a pillow and wedged it between her and Jason, then slid toward the edge of the bed, slipping out from under the warm arm. He mumbled in his sleep and repositioned himself, pulling the pillow closer and letting her escape.
She exhaled for maybe the first time that morning. Easing up from the bed, she located her clothes, jeans kicked over the easy chair in the corner, blouse hanging from the light by the closet, bra and underwear tossed on the floor. She gathered her things and slipped into the bathroom, groaning from the soreness in her thighs.
After splashing some water on her face, and slipping into her clothes from last night, she left the bathroom. Jason still slept, snoring softly. She stepped closer to the bed, temptation pulling her like a siren. Just one last touch, one last taste. Then she’d leave forever. She ran her fingers lightly over his back and shoulder, the warmth almost making her forget her decision to leave.
How had she gotten so lucky finding a man like Jason when she needed a boost? She had never believed in luck. Her father preached daily about the fairy tale that was luck. But something had brought this man into her life at the right time. Luck was as good a guess as anything.
She grinned, thinking of how she had worn him out. Maybe she was desirable. Clearly, someone had fun with her, found her sexy and attractive.
At the thought of her father, reality crashed in. A ripple of fear traveled up her spine. What if someone saw her leaving? The reporters should be gone; the story was last night. Thank God this was a one-time affair, no matter how much her hormones begged for a repeat.
He stirred, making a low sound deep in his throat. She froze, hoping he wouldn’t wake, although she’d heard that morning sex was always fun. She’d prefer to sneak out and avoid a scene. She turned to leave then paused. Should she leave a note? What would she say?
No note. No awkward goodbyes or insincere promises. It was an anonymous, wonderful evening.
She quietly slipped out of the door, with one last regretful glance at Jason, sleeping peacefully. He’d been the one aberration in her quiet, orderly life. The one act to feel she wasn’t a complete failure as a woman, as her father thought she was.
Now, it was time to move on.
*
Jason woke, stretchingsore muscles and cracking a jaw-popping yawn. He reached next to him and only felt a cold pillow, soft but not warm as the woman he’d spent the night with. He bolted up and glanced around, taking in his suitcases piled by the armoire and the empty space by the easy chair, where her jeans had landed in their frenzy the night before. He strode to the bathroom. A still damp face towel rested on the counter. No Stacia.
Nothing of her remained. Not a trace that she had ever existed.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Maybe it was better this way. He didn’t need the trappings of a girlfriend or, God forbid, another groupie looking for a happy-ever-after with a rich ball-player, or even a blackballed, out-of-work player like him. Yet it stung his pride like an inside pitch—slipping out as if she was embarrassed by their night together. Was this how women felt when he did that? Now he understood why they were so pissed when he left. It was all part of the game, right? They knew there was no happy ending, not beyond that night.
This time, though, he had thought they had made a connection, more than sex. He should be happy that she hadn’t subjected him to the drama of the morning after. The asking for phone numbers. When can I see you again? How could I have done this?
No, the best he could hope for is that she remained as discreet as she did slipping out the door.
He reached for the bottle of water next to the bed and saw the business card peeking out from under his wallet, the one he casually slipped out of her bag while she was distracted at the bar last night. He fingered it.
Stacia Kendall, Image Consultant
Well, at least he knew who she really was if he ever needed, or wanted, to find her.
But he was still pissed.